


A Pocketful of Starlight

by tisfan



Series: Tales from the Communal Kitchen (the ex-assassins files) [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1945, Bucky still falls from the train sorry, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Howling Commandoes, Intercrural Sex, Original Character(s), Original Trans Character - Freeform, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, Prostitution, Spies, Trans Female Character, Unhappy Ending, ambiguous ending, french underground resistance, not all love is forever, that doesn't mean it isn't love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Mentioned in a few conversations between Steve and Bucky during Winter is Coming, this is a side-fic that takes place entire during world war ii, after Bucky's time in the prison camp after the battle of Azzano... After receiving intelligence on French scientists being taken prisoner around Nazi-occupied France, the Howling Commandos go in to rescue the scientists/spies, while Bucky is sent into the heart of enemy territory to extract their informant. He doesn't have much to go on, and the entire mission is threatened when he becomes involved with a beautiful French courtesan.   Now with ART (see the end of chapter two for DeanDraw's great sketch





	1. A Curl of Blue Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Tisfan does a lot of research and while she does have a minor degree in Russian history, details of Nazi-occupied France might not be accurate; if nitpicking historical details is a thing for you, you might want to skip this fic.
> 
> This fic involves a transperson, but is set in a historical context where the vocabulary doesn’t even exist, much less hormone therapy or surgical advancements. Certainly equal rights, as they don’t exist much today, are out of the question. As a result, many of the conversations may come across as transphobic or otherwise unduly insensitive. But what Tisfan most wishes to express and hopes carries over, is that Celeste is an amazing, complex woman and that Bucky loves her.
> 
> Tisfan would also like to mention that sometimes the love that gets you through the night isn’t the love that gets you through your life. And that Celeste will be long dead before Bucky regains his memory in the 21st century. The story is a little bittersweet, the way old memories can be, and she hopes readers enjoy this little taste of the man she envisions Bucky Barnes to be. 
> 
> This story takes place primarily in Boulogne-Billancourt, France because Tisfan has friends who live in this small suburb just outside of Paris who wanted to see their home mentioned, so “hi friends.” Also, Tisfan does not speak French at all but unless otherwise mentioned the entire story takes place with the characters speaking French. Tisfan is taking a little liberty with the idea that Bucky’s been injected with Zola’s serum already and his ability to learn has been enhanced.

Nazi-occupied France was surprisingly peaceful; most of the Parisians went about their days uninterrupted, the buildings were unburned, there was no rioting in the streets, and the food shortages weren’t as evident here as in the south. At the same time, the streets were filled with Nazi soldiers and there was a subtle tension everywhere. Like a man trapped in a room with a deadly snake that might attack without warning, even if it wasn’t particularly hungry at the moment. 

Voices were hushed. The citizens on the street kept their heads down and mostly did not look at the Nazis, who were either patrolling the streets or enjoying the beauties, both the architecture and the women. Bucky’s stomach crawled as he thought of it; the Germans had been particularly attracted to the French women. Many of those women were less than eager for the attention, but _submitted_ rather than risk worse for themselves and their loved ones. 

The rest of the Commandos were outside the small district of Boulogne-Billancourt, staging a raid on a secret prison where several French underground resistance spies had been captured and were being tortured for information. Command had sent the Howling Commandos in a week ago, to try to locate and extract them. Bucky had been selected for the other half of the mission, as the only member of the Commandos who could pass as a Frenchman without drawing Nazi attention. Gabe Jones couldn’t hope to pass; there were negroes in Paris, a few, but they always drew unfavorable German attention. And Dernier’s face was on too many wanted lists to risk it. But Bucky had picked up the melodious language rapidly, Dernier praising his accent as nearly perfect, and most of the Krauts didn’t know his face.

 Bucky’s job was supposedly less dangerous, which was the only reason Steve had agreed to let him go into the city without backup. He was to find and exfiltrate their contact, the one who’d let them know that the resistance fighters were in desperate trouble, and passed along what details of the prison they could obtain. 

The problem was, Bucky had only one name, obviously false, and no description, no drop points, no other contacts, nothing aside from the fact that they often were found near the Blue Smoke, a bar/hostel that served as a high-end house of prostitution. Yeah, Dum Dum had made an awful lot of jokes about that as they moved across France toward their destination, how Bucky got all the _hard_ jobs. 

He’d been given a green, crushed-velvet jacket with a frayed collar to wear over a button-down white shirt and green undershirt, along with a black, flat fisherman’s cap. To his own eyes, Bucky thought it made him look a little bit Brooklyn-Irish, but Peggy had insisted it was down-at-the-heels fashion for a river-worker in Paris. No one seemed to look at him overlong, so she must have been right. Not that he’d really doubted her, but it was strange, being out of uniform. He missed his rifle, too. Going unarmed, so deep in enemy territory, was horrible, like having an itch in the middle of his back that he couldn’t reach. 

He leaned against the wall of the building across the street from the Blue Smoke, sticking a thin cigarillo in his mouth and lighting it. That was one good thing about being away from the rest of the unit: he could smoke. Steve hated cigarettes with a passion that was unholy, often grabbing the butt right out of a man’s mouth and pitching it away. Claimed the smell got to his super-sensitive nose and that it was a disgusting habit anyway. It was a losing battle -- aside from Steve, Bucky had yet to meet a soldier on this side of the Atlantic who didn’t smoke as constantly as rations allowed, but Steve had never let the odds stop him before, and he wasn’t about to pick up a good habit now. For a man who couldn’t get drunk, Steve took a lot of his frustrations out on other people’s coping mechanisms. 

Bucky didn’t have his rifle, but he wasn’t entirely unarmed. He shifted against the building as a pair of Nazi soldiers walked by, and his hand itched for the knife tucked in his boot. Too risky, and for no gain, but he inventoried his weapons again. Two knifes, a coil of garrote wire twisted in his belt, and Howard Stark had given him a few toys before he left, one of which was a tiny, tiny stick of explosive, tucked in the cigarette case. Bucky was almost hoping for a reason to use it; he’d always kinda wanted to blow somethin’ up. 

Bucky squinted at the sky; it was rolling on toward evening and there was curfew at nine. Not that he couldn’t get around that, if he had to, but, well, the fewer risks he took, the better, at least until he located the contact. A few customers went in -- with the curfew in place, the Blue Smoke’s prices had gone up because a man who went in to fuck was probably going to be there the entire night. 

So far, Bucky was just watching. He didn’t know what he was watching for, yet, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to get a sense of the regulars, if the contact was one of them. He was just getting ready to leave for the night when a woman came out of the building. 

She was lithe and slender with long coils of black braids that looped over her head and draped down her back. Her dress closed around her throat in the front, ruffled and deep crimson red, but as she turned to shift the chair at one of the cafe-tables outside, Bucky was lanced through the gut to realize that the gown left her entire back bare to his gaze, somehow more naked than if she’d lay stretched out beneath him. 

She moved with the sensuous grace of a cat, stretching and displaying her limbs. She sat down and Bucky caught a glimpse of rounded calves and trim, well-turned ankles. She wore crimson-heeled shoes. Just the sight of them made his mouth dry and he coughed on his own cigarette smoke. She pulled out a long cigarette holder and busied herself with her own cigarette. 

Bucky was across the street and offering her a light before he even really knew what he was doing. She wrapped her lips around the holder, drew a long pull of smoke and let it out, never taking her eyes off his. Her eyes were deep, black, and full of secrets. 

“Well, aren’t you a beautiful boy,” she said, her voice like a week of smokes and three days of hard drink, shivering down his spine. The sound was like the smell of whiskey, tempting, delicious. He would have sat at her feet and paid for the privilege of listening to her talk. What she would sound like, whispering to a fella in the darkness, that was… yeah, that was the sort of thought that would keep a man awake at night. 

“Ma’am,” Bucky said, giving her a little nod. “Mind if I sit and talk, a while?” 

“Sitting’s free, and talk is cheap,” she said. She drew another long smoke, the shape of her mouth doing all sorts of interesting things to Bucky’s insides. He was certain she was doing it on purpose, trying to lure in another customer, but it didn’t stop him from furiously calculating how many francs he had, wondering if it was enough. Steve would kill him for spending mission money on a woman, but Steve had never looked at this particular woman, either. 

“My name’s Gaelan Laroux,” Bucky said, giving her the undercover name that Command had given him. It was, supposedly, the name their contact had signed, which was obviously false, but Command’s thought was that he could use it as a trawl, see if it was recognized, if it would lead him to their contact. “Friends call me Gael, tho.” 

“Celeste,” the woman said, offering her hand and purring like a kitten when he brushed his lips over her knuckles. “But _are_ we friends, my beautiful boy? How can we be? I’ve only just met you now, Mr. Laroux.” 

Bucky leaned back in his chair as he sat, not taking his eyes off her. He curled his hand under his chin and absently brushed his thumbnail along his lower lip. “I’d say it was an auspicious meeting,” he said, “as I can’t imagine anyone else that I’d more want to be friends with.” 

She laughed, not cruel, and not even by rote. Some prostitutes he’d met were jaded; they laughed and smiled, but he never once felt that they were feeling anything real. They filled his need and his money filled their need, and he’d never once thought about them again. This one, _my Christ_ , he would remember for the rest of his life, even if they never had more than this conversation. “I think I like you, Mr. Laroux,” she said. “If you’d care to escort a lady for a brief stroll before curfew and she starts her evening’s labor, I’d be happy to get to know you better.”

 Bucky stood and offered her his arm. When she took it, her opposite hand curling around his elbow, he could feel the heat of her through three layers of clothing. He almost groaned aloud, but instead offered her his best, most charming smile and turned her onto the boulevard for an evening stroll. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bucky's spy outfit inspiration](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/525795325220039171/)


	2. A Twist of Black Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Miss Celeste,” he said as they drew closer to the Blue Smoke, squeezing her hand lightly with his, “how much would a kiss cost me?”
> 
> “Only a kiss, my beautiful boy?”
> 
> Bucky blushed, slanted a look at her. “You may be too much woman for me to handle, Miss Celeste, until I build up m’ tolerance.”

Two days of watching hadn’t gotten him anywhere; why did they have to send him in? He wasn’t a spy. Bucky muttered and grumbled to himself, peering through his binoculars from the spot he’d scouted out on the roof. Men went in, stayed a while, came out. Sometimes the women would come out to smoke, to flirt on the sidewalks. 

Celeste came out a couple of times a day to smoke, and as evening approached, Bucky had taken a break to sit with her or walk around the block. She never suggested that he pay for her time, and he never offered. Every time she laughed, it was like a bolt of fire to his abdomen that sent gooseflesh up his chest and down his arms, knifed him in the belly and made his prick stir with interest, but he was happy, content, even, to squire her about as if he were courting her. 

She spoke of little that was important, mostly her life growing up in a small town in southern Italy. Her father was Italian, her mother French; they’d left Italy after her mother had been shot for smuggling medication and food into some of the Jewish prison camps. They’d come to France and the war had followed them. Her father had died a few years ago in the Battle of France, one of the soldiers in the miserable failure that was the Maginot Line. 

The second evening, after noticing that he wasn’t sharing stories of his own youth -- how could he, Brooklyn being absolutely nowhere near Lyons, where he was pretending to be from, and his best pal being Captain America, it wasn’t like the tales of his misspent youth weren’t going to obviously be false -- she gave him a sideways glance and said, her husky voice low and secretive, “My beautiful boy, it is obvious that you are an American, but do not worry. I will not tell. Unless you have deserted your nation in this hour of terror, but I do not believe that of you. You are too good a man, Gael, to have done such a thing.” 

Bucky didn’t quite flinch, but it was a near thing. He didn’t want to lie to her and he couldn’t tell her the truth. Half-Italian as she was, she could be a spy, and not for the Allies. He didn’t believe it, but that was the business of spies, after all, to win trust. “I’m honored that you think so,” he managed, wanting to hear the sound of his name on her tongue, wanting to hear her crying out in the darkness for him. But he also wanted to trust her, didn’t know if he could. If he could not, confiding in her would be the worst way to compromise his mission. On the other hand, if he didn’t confide in her, he might miss his chance to find his contact at all. 

“Miss Celeste,” he said as they drew closer to the Blue Smoke, squeezing her hand lightly with his, “how much would a kiss cost me?” 

“Only a kiss, my beautiful boy?” 

Bucky blushed, slanted a look at her. “You may be too much woman for me to handle, Miss Celeste, until I build up m’ tolerance.” 

She laughed, easy and delighted, the sound going straight through him, electrifying every nerve ending, drawing him closer to her like a magnet, like a wayward moon and he was caught in the spell of her gravity. “I will give you one kiss, and the cost will be one truth. Do you still wish the exchange?” 

Dangerous game. He knew it and couldn’t help himself. “Yes, ma’am, I surely do.” 

The smell of her perfume enveloped him; she was tall and stick-slender, her mouth a mere head-tilt away from his own. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, her breath driving him wild. “What are you really looking for, Mr. Laroux?” 

How much to tell her? Bucky struggled with it. The wrong words could get him killed, could out his contact and get that man killed. He scrubbed at his front teeth with his tongue. “I’m looking for a man who has risked his life to pass on information. I was told he frequented your establishment.” 

“Many men frequent this establishment,” Celeste told him, earnestly. “We do not usually ask names, nor do we remember faces. It is dangerous, in these times, even to provide comfort, and especially for those of us who cater to more unusual tastes.” 

Bucky’s imagination whited out, trying to imagine what “unusual tastes” that Celeste might provide. He shivered against her, certain she knew he was aroused, positive that she was using it against him. “A man’s life is at stake,” he emphasized. If she wasn’t a spy, maybe he could play to her sympathies and keep her from mentioning this to anyone else. 

“So is yours, Mr. Laroux,” she said. “Give me your name and kiss me.” 

“It’s James,” he said, hand curling around her lower back, feeling the warmth of her bare skin in that tempting, lewd dress she wore. James was safe enough, a common name, not likely to associate him with anyone looking for the Howling Commandos, even if half the squad shared the name. 

“James,” she said and it was everything he’d hoped it would be, the decadence of whiskey and chocolate, the ultimate sin and devilish temptation and he folded her into his embrace, his arms memorizing her girlish slenderness, the curve of her spine, the soft cushion of her backside even as his mouth came down over hers. 

Her mouth was full, lush, rich with promises. She moved easily under him, tasting, testing, her tongue flicking over his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth and tugging lightly. She explored him and exploited him, left him gasping for breath. She tasted like smoke and heaven, like freedom and passion and longing all in one and he could never, would never have enough of her. He thrust his thigh between her legs, wanting her heat all around him and she smiled under his plundering mouth as she felt the length of him against her belly.

* * *

  
 By moonrise, he’d settled back into his spy-hole to watch the building. The curtains in the main drawing room were slightly ajar, letting him into the room. With Stark’s advanced scope, it was almost like he was right outside the window, peeking in. The clientele were mainly French tonight, with only one German that he saw,arrogant and crude, using his money to buy the women away from their countrymen, merely because he could. He had at least three girls with him all night, and as Bucky guessed from their faces, not satisfying a one. 

When Celeste entered the room, Bucky had to fight to put the scope down. He didn’t want to see that, didn’t want to see her with another man, a _German_ man no less. A Nazi. Acid jealousy tore at him. He fought the compulsion, but couldn’t help looking again, adjusting the angle of his scope upward, to the room Celeste used. 

He knew it wasn’t fair, but he hated her in that moment as she let him unfasten her gown. She clutched it to her chest as he turned her around, away from the window. The man’s hands caressed her back, where Bucky’s own had been not hours before and he burned, full of rage and hatred and aching loneliness. 

“Get your hands off her,” he muttered, watching and wishing he could stop. 

The man shoved her to the floor, suddenly angry and yelling. What had happened? One minute the German had been kissing her neck and turning her in his arms, and then Bucky couldn’t see her, only watch the man shout and wave his arms. 

“Shit,” Bucky said, tucking the scope into his waistband, wanting his gun, dear God, he wanted his gun. He didn’t know what to do, he… He could not be seen on the streets after curfew, he could not jeopardize his mission. He couldn’t stay put and let this happen. 

Shouting, loud enough now that he could hear it from across the street. The German was dragging Celeste out of the building by her hair. She was kicking at him, her gown torn down and hampering her arms. She bit the man’s wrist and he screamed, kicking her down the steps. She spilled into the road, hissing like an angry cat. 

To hell with the mission. Bucky vaulted over the side of the roof, dropping onto the fire-escape below, and then jumped down again, tumbling into the alley. He drew his blade from the small of his back, and there was no time for subtle, no time to choose the best path, because Celeste was sprawled on the ground, tears glittering on her face and the German had a gun trained on her face, inches from her forehead. 

Since his capture, Bucky had found himself moving faster, shooting straighter, jumping further than he’d ever done before in his life. He hated it, didn’t like to think of why -- _we don’t know what it will do to you, Mr. Barnes_ \-- but now he pressed his new limits to their straining points, darting down the alley and across the street in mere seconds, knife tucked against his forearm, silent and deadly. 

He was on the man before the German knew he was coming, slashing at the arm which held the gun, fast but not fast enough. The shot rang out, loud, shocking, deadly, and Celeste screamed, going down in a splatter of blood. Bucky stabbed with the knife, snatching at the gun with his other hand as the German struggled to bring his weapon around to bear.   

Bucky blocked the gun, thrust its muzzle skyward just as the Nazi discharged another round. They were running out of time, shit, _shit_. He shoved, then followed the stumble with a quick grace cut, slicing the man’s throat open like a pig’s. Bucky was drenched in the spray, blinding him for a moment. He scraped his hand across his face, but it was over; the man was dead or dying. Bucky pocketed the gun before turning to see if it had all been for nothing. 

Celeste was sobbing quietly, her shoulder a bloody mess, but the bullet had exited cleanly, which was a blessing. Bucky peeled off his coat, trying not to look at other things the torn dress had revealed. He couldn’t take advantage in the situation, didn’t want that memory. “Can you walk?”

 She pulled the jacket close around her. “My beautiful boy… for you, I can run.” 

* * *

 

And she did, which was amazing. They fled through the streets, Bucky close on her heels. He had reason to be grateful for the Kraut’s gun, because they crossed paths with two other groups, each headed toward the Blue Smoke in answer to the gunfire there, and Bucky was forced to use every round, shooting seven Krauts dead in one night. His cover was blown, his mission was blown, and it was all going straight to shit. He couldn’t be sorry for it. 

She was alive, and Bucky meant to keep her that way. 

Celeste led him to a tiny butcher shop near the edge of town and pulled him inside. They made their way through a grisly maze of hooked sides of beef and pork into the very back. She exchanged a few hasty words with a worker there, who took a handful of Bucky’s francs and let them into a secret basement, which in turn led into the tunnels below Paris. 

Celeste was fading fast, shock and blood loss taking their inevitable toll, and it thankfully wasn’t far to their destination, a cramped underground room which held a dozen men, one wireless radio, and an orange-striped cat with one eye that opened to peer at him balefully. “My friends,” she said, staggering into the room, “this is my new American friend, James. Please, we need help.” 

She collapsed, and one of the other men scooped her up before Bucky could reach her. “I’m a doctor,” he said, pushing Bucky aside. “I’ll take care of her. You, talk.” Half a dozen guns came up and Bucky hastily held up his hands.

by [Deandraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAKJoEO21s0) is a clip of Shohreh Aghdashloo, the actress that I envision Celeste as sounding and looking like.
> 
> [ and this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/456974693425301551/) is what she looks like, near enough. I'm very inspired by ms. aghdashloo and I find her voice amazingly erotic.


	3. A Slant of Green Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? No,” Bucky answered back in the same language before he remembered he didn’t really want to do that until he’d established his credentials. “I got her out of there. Some Kraut was going to shoot her in the head. I didn’t… I mean, she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”
> 
> “What part of shot is difficult for you Americans to understand? That’s the very definition of not all right.”

There was nothing quite like being surrounded by armed men with only a knife and a depleted Kraut pistol. The last time he’d found himself with multiple guns pointed in his direction, he’d spent nearly two weeks in a Hydra work prison, injected with all sorts of stuff. In the end, it had sort of worked out -- at least he’d gotten rescued and the Howling Commandos were making a difference in ways the 107th never could. But really, his track record wasn’t looking too good right about now. 

Not that he blamed them for being suspicious; if he was going to infiltrate the place, posing as the rescuer for a friend wouldn’t be a bad cover. 

“Hey, fellas,” Bucky tried in English instead, letting his Brooklyn accent hang out as much as possible. “I’m an American, you know? Any a’ you speak English?” 

“Where’s your unit, American dogface?” One of the men spat on the floor, his finger itching closer to his trigger, and god damn, Bucky did not want to have to fight these men; even if he won, they all lost. 

“I’m on detached duty,” he said, keeping his hands very still. “Came looking for an informant, since my unit’s about to act on his information and we want to keep him safe.” 

Another man, one Bucky hadn’t seen before, came barreling out of the room where the doc had taken Celeste. There was blood on his hands and rage on his face and he didn’t stop until he’d grabbed Bucky’s shirt, twisted it, and thrust him up against the wall, rattling Bucky’s teeth in the process. “Did you hit her?” he demanded in French. 

“What? No,” Bucky answered back in the same language before he remembered he didn’t really want to do that until he’d established his credentials. “I got her out of there. Some Kraut was going to shoot her in the head. I didn’t… I mean, she’s going to be all right, isn’t she?” 

“What part of _shot_ is difficult for you Americans to understand? That’s the very definition of not all right.” 

“It was through and through, I checked,” Bucky said, starting to panic. “I mean, yeah, it hurts like hell, but it was clean! Did it nick the lung?” He strained at the hands holding him up and the man gave way easier than Bucky would have thought, or maybe the adrenaline was making him stronger. “ _Celeste_?” He shoved his way past the resistance fighters, no longer caring if they shot him. 

Celeste was laying back on a dirty table, a sheet wrapped around her chest and tucked under her arms as the doctor prodded at her wound. She whimpered with each careful probe, eyes shut and leaking tears. Her face was puffy on the left side; the Kraut had obviously backhanded her even harder than Bucky had thought. 

He winced, but gasped out, “Celeste,” relieved that she was still alive. He was barely aware of the resistance fighter who was trying to drag him back out of the room. 

“My beautiful boy,” she whispered. “James. Thank you, thank you so much.” 

The hands fell off him, and the other man snorted in disgust. “Yanks,” he said. He went to Celeste’s side and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you’re alive. You know you take stupid risks. You should not have been at the ‘Smoke.” 

“I do what I can, Frederic, like any good French woman would,” she said, not looking up at him. “Forgive him, James. He does not approve of my work. He believes he gets a say in what I do.” 

“I am responsible for you, god damn it,” Frederic snapped. “You promised you’d obey me, do you remember?” 

Bucky almost fell over, all the blood draining out of his face. Celeste was _married_ to this man? How could… If he had any claim on her at all, Bucky would not be able to bear it if she gave herself to another. The thought made him sick. Despite that, he couldn’t help but look back at her, the bruise on her face livid against her pale cheek, the soft shudders she gave as the doctor tended her wounds. Even though she was married, he still wanted her. He couldn’t think of anything in the world he wanted more, God help him. 

Bucky nodded to her. “Glad you’re all right,” he said, and that was true. “I’ll just, ah, give you some privacy.” 

He slipped back into the main room and fortunately no one was pointing a gun in his direction anymore, because he was spoiling for a fight and if he’d felt threatened, he might just give them one. Which would help no one. Apparently, however, his rage and concern for Celeste had been genuine enough for them to relax. 

One of them thumbed himself in the chest and muttered a quick “Pierre,” before offering Bucky a smoke, which Bucky was just as glad to take him up on. 

“Look, I’m James Barnes,” he said. “Guess I’ve blown my own mission to hell, so I need to hook back up with my unit. Maybe you can get me out of Boulogne in the next few days?” 

One of the other guys jerked his chin at Bucky. “The tunnels will take you out. We’ll provide a guide, some ammo for your weapon. What’s your unit?” 

Bucky smirked. “The Howling Commandos.” 

All chatter in the room stopped as the French resistance turned, to a man, to stare at him in shock and disbelief. Sometimes, Bucky thought, there were perks to being famous. 

* * *

 

 The next few days passed slowly. The Resistance men got him some new clothes that weren’t bloodstained, but he was forced to wash out of a bucket of tepid water because that’s all they had. It was obvious that he was begrudged every drop, but there was no way he could be seen in public covered with that Kraut’s blood, and his own clothes were too ruined to wear. 

Celeste slept a lot, looked pale and wane when she was awake, and was guarded by a constantly glowering Frederic, so Bucky couldn’t talk personally with her anyway. It certainly was her husband’s right to sit at her side while she recovered, but he couldn’t help but notice that Frederic seemed more angry and disgusted than tender or concerned. Bucky started to wonder if she would consider leaving with him, when he went. But there was never any time to ask. 

He played cards with the men, Pierre, Jacques, Alvaire, and Remy. He learned to keep a careful eye on Remy, who counted cards accurately and frequently won. After a few hands, Bucky learned to fold as soon as Remy started betting. Of course, sometimes he was bluffing, but not as often as Bucky might have done, if he’d had the skill. 

Darts were another way to pass the time while they waited, and that was a game he was particularly good at, soothing the minor injury to his pride that the cards had given. Men came and went, passing along information, delivering packages, taking messages. Listening to the Nazis talk their code on the radio. 

A few days after he arrived, Frederic took him aside to ask pointed questions about his operation. 

“I’m looking for a man who calls himself Gaelan Laroux,” Bucky said. “Command got information from him on a group of spies who were captured; the rest of my unit is going to be attacking their compound in the next -- what day is it? The 23rd? Okay -- in the next two days or so. I was sent to get Laroux out, since he’s probably going to be made when the Commandos hit the compound. But I couldn’t find him; didn’t have much information to go on, and then I… I couldn’t help it. I could not watch that damn Nazi shoot Celeste in the street like a dog.” 

“Uff, Celeste, again,” Frederic said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Always getting into trouble, my cousin. Celeste’s father, he warns me, but do I listen? No. I think I can take care of Celeste, but no, it does not happen. Always, trouble. Maybe you will have better luck.” 

“Cousin?” Bucky asked, carefully, not certain he understood. 

“Yes, the child of my mother’s brother. Cousin, that’s the right word, yes?” Frederic’s English was worse than Bucky’s French, but Frederic had insisted on conversing in English, since he claimed Bucky’s accent gave him a headache. 

The relief on Bucky’s face was probably too great to ignore, and Frederic made a soft, disgusted noise. “What, you think I would be married to that… creature? No. I take care of Celeste because I promise, but… “ He shook his head. “More trouble, that one, than worthy.” 

Bucky bit at the inside of his cheek. He still needed their help to get through to the Commandos again, and he didn’t want to piss off the resistance cell leader without cause. He was pretty sure Steve would agree that a man disrespecting his own cousin was _wrong_ , but not necessarily worth Bucky getting into a fight over it. 

“It will be hard to get you out,” Frederic said. “The Nazis, they are still looking for the man who killed two patrols and an SS officer. You have kicked the hornet’s nest, my American friend.” 

“It will be even harder than you think, Frederic,” Celeste said. She stood in the door, wearing a thin white night-rail, her shoulder bandaged and lumpy underneath the gown. “We have to go back to the ‘Smoke.” 

“And, what do I say?” Frederic threw up his hands. “More trouble.”


	4. A Splatter of Red Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what’s the plan, sweetheart?”
> 
> Frederic had gone, and Bucky found himself sitting at the table, desperately aware of how very little clothing Celeste was wearing and how much he wanted to pull her into his arms and strip the rest of it away.
> 
> Celeste cupped her hands under her elbows and shivered. “We’re going to walk to the ‘Smoke and get my letters. And then we will leave.”
> 
> “Sometimes a little more details help,” Bucky said, trying hard not to laugh. It was the sort of plan Dum Dum was prone to suggesting. His other favorite saying was as how no battle plan survives the first contact with the enemy, so the less planning they did, the more time they had to sleep. Bucky had to admit, he wasn’t entirely inaccurate, either. “Even if no one got a real good gander at me, you’re a little recognizable. Do you think we’ll just be able to stroll in?”

“I know Gaelan Laroux,” she said, simply. “I facilitated the passing of information for him. I can help you find him, and I have more of his intelligence, but there are coded letters back in my room at the ‘Smoke that I need, if we are to preserve his life. If those letters are found…” 

Frederic snorted. “You should--” 

“It is valuable information, cousin, and should not be lost.” 

“Of course it is,” Frederic said. “Good luck talking her out of anything, Sergeant Barnes. I won’t risk my men. I would get you out, but if you… If you insist on acting the fool, you’re on your own. And we won’t be here if you return. Too risky. You return to the ‘Smoke, you risk us all, Celeste. It would be a kindness to put a bullet in you now, before you cost this man his life, too.” 

“There’s going to be no shooting here,” Bucky said. “We’ll be safe enough, and you get your men somewhere better hid. No shame in that, either.” He didn’t blame Frederic for any of it; living in an occupied city had to be hell. 

Bucky fingered his cigarette case, empty now, except for that last smoke that wasn’t one at all. If it came to the worst, he figured, he could use it to blow something up. Steve knew the signs of a Stark-made explosion, and he’d know it for what it was. The Commandos weren’t supposed to cause a ruckus in Paris; the situation was delicate. Parisians were considered close enough to Aryans that the Krauts were treating them nicely. Well, as nice as any evil overlords could be expected to be. Mostly the people weren’t starving, and mostly they weren’t being experimented upon against their will -- _It’s an experiment, Sergeant Barnes_ \-- and they weren’t being slaughtered by the double-dozen. 

If the Howling Commandos rushed the city, people would die, and not just the ones who stood in the Commandos’ way. There would be dozens interrogated and killed after. Last resort, Bucky promised himself.The prison camp was only about twenty miles, Bucky could cover that in a day on foot, faster if he could find a car or motorcycle that he could boost. He could set off the explosives and still meet the Commandos on the road. 

They’d be fine. 

* * *

 

 “So, what’s the plan, sweetheart?” 

Frederic had gone, and Bucky found himself sitting at the table, desperately aware of how very little clothing Celeste was wearing and how much he wanted to pull her into his arms and strip the rest of it away. 

Celeste cupped her hands under her elbows and shivered. “We’re going to walk to the ‘Smoke and get my letters. And then we will leave.” 

“Sometimes a little more details help,” Bucky said, trying hard not to laugh. It was the sort of plan Dum Dum was prone to suggesting. His other favorite saying was as how no battle plan survives the first contact with the enemy, so the less planning they did, the more time they had to sleep. Bucky had to admit, he wasn’t entirely inaccurate, either. “Even if no one got a real good gander at me, you’re a little recognizable. Do you think we’ll just be able to stroll in?” 

Celeste gave him a shaky little smile. “My beautiful James, they will never look twice at us. We shall go in as great friends, looking to take our ease with the ladies. Men are always going into a whorehouse, James, and no one ever looks at them at all.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose to do that?” 

Celeste fingered her braid reluctantly. “First, you are going to kiss me, while I am still lovely and you still wish to. And then you are going to cut my hair. And you will see just how unremarkable I am.” 

“You will never be unremarkable to me,” Bucky said, but he had no intention of missing out on a kiss, and so he claimed it before she could change her mind, possessed her before she could even blink. He was on her in a moment, pressing her back into her chair, devouring her mouth, tasting the clean flavor of her lips, the mint of toothpaste, the tang of her cigarettes. He teased her lips until they yielded to him, and then stole the very air from her lungs, holding her closer. He leaned his weight against her, one thigh stealing between her knees to spread her open, drinking in the heat of her body, taking every inch of her that he could touch. He cupped her jaw, used the pad of his thumb to hold her mouth open to his questing tongue. 

His other hand rested on her thigh and the warmth of her smoked up his body like he was a chimney drawing up a fire. He wanted to move his hands, to explore her body, to touch and tickle and squeeze and it was the hardest thing in his life to resist, but she’d only offered a kiss and he would not dishonor her or himself by taking more than he was allowed. 

Her arms went around his neck, clasping him to her, and when her fingers carded through his mop of unruly curls, he released her mouth to groan against her neck. 

When at last she pulled away from him, she was panting for breath. She rested her forehead against his chin and shivered. He tucked his fingers against her cheek and was astonished to discover that she was weeping. “Celeste, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It’s only hair. It’ll grow out. I won’t cut it too short, you can tuck it under a cap, okay?” 

“My beautiful boy,” she murmured. “How you take care of me, my love, my friend.” 

Bucky shivered in response and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “My guiding star,” he said, meaning _I love you_. She smiled, her lips wobbling as without words, she told him that she knew it. 

* * *

 

When Celeste opened the door and stepped out, Bucky barely recognized her. She wore a newspaper boy cap, a striped shirt, trousers and braces, and ragged brown boots and damned if she didn’t look just like a boy just out of his teens, green and eager. 

Her face cracked, the expression in her eyes extraordinarily anguished for someone wearing a costume, and Bucky hurried over to her, putting his arms around her and kissing her forehead. “You are still my star,” he murmured. “It is the woman inside and not fabric and braids.” 

She sighed, pushed him away with reluctance. “We should go,” she said. “Frederic is almost ready to move out with his men, and I would rather not see even the direction in which they leave. I know many things about myself, James, and one of them is that I would surely break under torture.” 

Bucky checked the pistols that Frederic had provided, one tucked in the waistband of his cotton trousers and one in his boot. “That won’t happen,” he said. “I will… give mercy.” He couldn’t bear the idea of having to shoot her, but he knew in his heart that if they were captured, it was the best option. There was no way he would allow what had happened to him in Zola’s lab to happen to his beloved. It _was_ a mercy and even if God never forgave him, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

Celeste led him through the city, through the expanses of abandoned cellars and into a church crypt. The bodies didn’t stink, long since dessicated and nothing more than dust and bones and raggedy cloth, which was almost more upsetting than the wet, thick stench of rot. Instead, the tang on the air was like spice and made him think of muffins and pie; his stomach rumbled, which nearly turned the hunger into violent nausea. 

She drew him past the bodies without sparing a glimpse for the wrapped figures laid out on stone slabs, the deep sarcophagi, the stone and engraved coffins.There were rats, and the depths of the crypts were damp as they approached the ancient cathedral, lending a whiff of mildew and rot to the air. Bucky clenched down on his jaw, swallowing hard and keeping his breath as shallow as possible. Something that Zola had done to him let him hold his breath for much longer than normal, and that was a blessing, right up until he noticed that Celeste was noticing. And then he had to pretend, to breathe more often. Then he started wondering if he could actually inhale a ghost and carry its anguished spirit around with him, and _Jesus Christ_ , fuck, he needed to get out of here. 

There were footsteps and a flicker of light. Bucky scooped Celeste around the middle and drew her back into an alcove, extinguishing his electric torch and shoving it deep in his pocket. She curled into him like a second skin and he was deeply, deeply aware of the press of her backside against his groin. He buried his nose in the ragged remains of her hair, drawing in her scent for strength. He drew the pistol from his waistband with his left hand and held it against his leg, ready, as they waited. 

The light flickered closer and Bucky turned Celeste so her face was pressed into his chest, closed his eyes so the gleam of reflection wouldn’t give them away, and listened. Listened... 

The steps faded and he exhaled softly. He didn’t want to shoot anyone in this black and death-filled tomb. Who knew what malevolent ghosts that would raise? 

They climbed out of the basement and into the church, one of the few remaining Catholic churches in France, after the Terrors. Bucky crossed himself quickly as they ducked through the vestibule. He hadn’t been to church in years; his mother had stopped nagging him when he took a job at the docks, and that only because he worked on Sundays. He was still expected to attend Mass for holy days. He was getting really good at lying about it in his letters. 

But what they were about to do was stupid on a level surpassing any of the dumb-ass things he’d done before, and if it were possible for God to look down on him and smile, this would be a damn good time for that to happen. They passed an old French woman on their way out and Bucky pressed a few francs into her hand. “Light a candle for us,” he whispered, and she patted his hand as they went by. 

“Left,” Celeste whispered, voice taking on an even lower, more gravely tone. That voice still slid under Bucky’s skin like a knife, leaving him open and raw and bleeding with emotion. “Two streets down, and we’ll stop in the One-Eyed Pig to get a drink or two.” 

Bucky nodded, letting Celeste slip out from under his arm so they were walking a more acceptable distance apart. He’d seen the Pig before, a hole in the wall if there ever was, with near-constant drunken brawls. No one asked questions there, and no Nazis were ever allowed. Not that they could enforce the unspoken rule officially, but the place had that sort of reputation. And it wasn’t that far from the ‘Smoke. “Right. I could go for a shot of liquid courage.” 

They threw back a few shots of the local rotgut, two down their throats and one more to drip over their shirts so they would smell more drunk than they were. Celeste’s throat moved beautifully as she swallowed and Bucky had to remain sitting for a while longer to get his raging erection under control. This was _not_ the time. 

Celeste staggered out just as the next bar fight started, Bucky hard on her tail. He managed to block a random blow, punched another fella in the kidney to get him out of the way, and then they were free of the melee and moving away rapidly. The ‘Smoke wasn’t far, and Bucky was scrambling for the remainder of his francs and explaining to the procurer that they wanted a girl who was willing to take ‘em both on for the evening, and damn if that didn’t get him going again, and _Christ_ he was painfully aroused now. 

Noémie was a red-haired woman with breasts that Bucky could hardly fathom. Really, he couldn’t have gotten his hand around even one of them, and even when he saw Celeste slant a faint, hurt glare at him, he had trouble finding the red-head’s face above them. “If you’re both gonna poker me at the same time, that’ll cost extra, but anything else, and it’s the flat rate. I like havin’ two.” She trailed a hand up Bucky’s arm, which got him twitching and eager. 

On the stairs, Celeste squeezed Noémie’s arm. “Celeste’s room, please,” she said, “and there’s a bonus in it for you.” 

Noémie nodded. “I knew it was you,” she said. “You forget, I was here when you arrived.” 

Celeste made a face behind Noémie’s back that Bucky wasn’t sure how to interpret. The redhead turned the corner and opened the door. The furnishings were rich, dark red with gold accents, and the room smelled faintly of Italian perfume. 

Bucky dipped into his pocket again for the very last of his francs. Command was going to have words for him, but if he could just make it through the mission, complete his objectives, then… well, it’s not like Steve was going to demand to transfer him out of the unit, now was he? 

Noémie locked the door behind them, neglecting to take the francs from him before she left. Bucky had one brief second of confusion before he realized what had happened: Trap. 

_Of course._  

* * *

 

The Nazi soldier behind the door shoved him further into the room, guns already trained on his head, and Celeste’s. Another darted forward to relieve him of the gun in his waistband, his knife. Two more watched, leaning against the far wall. They missed the gun in his boot and Bucky started the slow, subtle movements in that direction, as long as he was on his knees anyway. 

He wasn’t fast enough. One of the goons grabbed a handful of Celeste’s hair and held the gun right to her cheek. She panted for breath, wide eyes darting in terror, not saying a word. 

Bucky spread his hands carefully, shifting his weight to get his feet under himself. “Easy, now,” he said, sticking to French. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice that his accent wasn’t pure Parisian. “What’s the trouble, sir?” 

“American scum,” the guard muttered. He’d said it in German, but those were words that Bucky -- and nearly every other Allied soldier in Europe -- had long since figured out. He kicked Bucky in the ribs, hard, and Bucky allowed himself to crumple to the floor, even if it didn’t hurt as much as it could have, slipping his hand under his leg and sliding down to grab the gun. 

He came up shooting, no hesitation: one, drop; two, drop; three, drop; spin, caught the man holding Celeste around the neck. He discharged his pistol once, but Celeste was already shoving at his arm, and the bullet went through the wall. A female shriek, in pain or terror, Bucky couldn’t tell, sounded very faint in the echo of gunfire. 

He fumbled in his jacket for the cigarette case. No lucifers, though; his matchbox was empty, god dammit. “Light, Celeste?” 

She dove for the bedside table, throwing clothes everywhere, digging. She tossed a tattered matchbox at him, then pushed the table aside. She pressed just near the floorboards, opening a secret drawer and tucking a packet of letters into her boy’s jacket. 

Bucky listened; there were panicked footsteps on the stairs, then shouting and screaming. “Down, down, down,” he yelled, diving for the floor and rolling up to cover Celeste’s head with his body as heavy gunfire rumbled through the room, turning the rich furnishings into brilliant sparks of red and gold trash. A bullet tore a line of fire across his shoulders and Bucky hissed. More bullets, and even more, closer now, spraying the room with shrapnel and lead. 

Fingers shaking, he removed Stark’s explosive from his case, struck the sulphur and waited. 

The soldier leading the charge opened the shattered door, pushed it open with slow deliberation, gun proceeding him into the room. Bucky lit the fuse and threw. 

“Go, go, the window, go!” Bucky practically shoved Celeste in the direction of the glass and she tucked her head and shouldered though it, screaming as the glass shattered in all directions. Bucky was not far behind her, and they were both blown through the air and into the street by the force of the explosion. 

Bucky hit the pavement a moment later, rolling on his shoulder and screaming once as the fall pulled open the bullet wound. Celeste hit the street and rolled to a stop, unmoving, bleeding from a dozen scrapes and cuts. 

“No, no, no,” Bucky yelled. He forced himself to scramble to her side, touched shaking fingers to her fine, pale throat. For a long moment, there was no movement. He put one finger below her nose and nearly went limp with relief as he felt the soft brush of her breath. 

Shoulder screaming in agony, he laced his hands under her body and pulled her to his chest, tucking her in the cradle of his arms. He staggered to his feet, searching for a way out, any way out. Stark’s bomb was impressive, indeed; the ‘Smoke was going up in flames and patrons and women were spilling out into the street, coughing and screaming. 

There was no help for it, and Bucky gritted his teeth as he ran, full out in the open, but needing to put distance between the fire -- and more importantly, the soldiers who would be giving chase -- and their vulnerable selves. He had no weapons, he had no guide, he… god, he was fucked, and Steve was going to raise him from the dead just to kill him again. 

He took turns at random, trying to lose himself in the labyrinthine streets, to find someplace, _anyplace_ , to hide. He kept the burning building to his back and didn’t look around to see if he was being followed. He’d find out when the bullets ripped him to shreds; looking back couldn’t make him run any faster. Celeste’s dead weight dragged at him, but he managed. His back was sticky and hot with blood. 

He staggered to a halt, faced with Point de Jour and the river. The bridges were all check-stations and he had no papers; he was wounded and carrying a woman disguised as a boy, who might well be dying or dead. Bucky cursed, and ducked into an alley before he could be seen by the Krauts. Two streets down, the darkness of closed shops and warehouses shielded him as he slipped over the green and into the Seine river. The water was cold, unbearably so, but it soothed the line of fire across his shoulders and took some of Celeste’s weight from his arms. The Seine grew too deep to walk and Bucky started swimming; it was harder than he’d imagined to drag her along, making sure to keep her face above water, terrified that he would lose strength and they’d both drown. But better to drown than to face the Nazis. 

Hours seemed to pass, but eventually, under full cover of darkness, Bucky found himself staggering up the other shore. Celeste’s ragged breathing was music to his ears. He pulled her up the shore and under a thick shield of bushes, falling to the ground beside her. He’d done the best for them that he could. Too weary to move another inch, he slid into unconsciousness, holding one of her limp hands in his, pressed against his heart.


	5. A Flare of White Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The letters,” she said, removing the packet from her coat, wrapped in oiled cloth and luckily safe from the river’s water. She handed the bundle to him. “Your American friends will want them. And you should have them before…”
> 
> “Before what?”
> 
> “Before I tell you the truth, my beloved.”

Bucky woke to the sound of ragged coughing. He bolted upright, grasping for a weapon he didn’t have. 

“Celeste!” 

She waved a hand at him, continuing to cough, gagging and choking until she vomited onto the ground. She gasped and sobbed a few times, then finally looked at him. 

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed, drawing her into a warm embrace. “I thought I’d lost you. Darling, darling.” He was shocked, utterly, to find himself weeping in relief. Ragged and disheveled, her blood-stained and filthy clothing clinging to her, Celeste was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. 

“James,” she said, as if not knowing what else to say, her hand at her throat, eyes wide and shining. “You may be growing too attached to me.” 

“I love you,” Bucky confessed. “I know I shouldn’t, but… I would…” 

“My beautiful boy,” she said, staring up at him. “I hope you know what you have bargained for, James.” 

Bucky had no answer for her, so he just touched her face, letting his caress and his eyes say everything that needed to be said. 

“The letters,” she said, removing the packet from her coat, wrapped in oiled cloth and luckily safe from the river’s water. She handed the bundle to him. “Your American friends will want them. And you should have them before…” 

“Before what?” 

“Before I tell you the truth, my beloved.” 

Bucky twisted his mouth into an amused smile. “That you’re the contact, darling? I knew that, already. I knew when you asked for my real name; you knew I wasn’t Gaelan, because you are.” 

She couldn’t look at him. “I was born Gaelan Laroux. My father’s son. I didn’t want to tell you, so lovely and caring as you have been. I wanted to be the woman you believed that I was. The one I feel in my soul that I am.” She paused a long moment, then burst out, “In the name of God, say something!” 

“I am waiting for you to say something that changes my feelings for you,” Bucky said, as gently as he knew how. “I haven’t heard it yet. Celeste, I don’t care what name you were born under, I don’t care what--” 

“You don’t care about _this_?” She grabbed his hand, almost angrily, and thrust it between her legs, where he was quite and instantly certain that she did, in fact, have a male appendage. Lust surged into his chest and his thighs tightened. He couldn’t resist the urge to groan and pull her into his arms, not moving his hand away. 

“It changes nothing,” he assured her, “save that now I wish to do things with you that we have neither the time nor the privacy to pursue to their fullest extent. If there is nothing else you wish to attempt to shock me with right now, maybe we should get going?” And he kissed her, because he knew he could and knew she wanted him to and knew there was no other way he would convince her that he meant what he said. 

But mostly because he wanted to. 

* * *

 

Bucky hadn’t been far wrong when he thought Steve would come for him as soon as he recognized a Stark-manufactured explosion; they ran into the Commandos a day later some twenty miles south of Paris. Bucky’d never been so glad to see Dum Dum’s stupid hat in his life. Celeste was exhausted; she wasn’t a wayward science experiment, and she wasn’t a soldier, and her enthusiasm for hiking off the side of the road to avoid being seen was at an all time low when the truck rumbled by and Bucky saw the side of Dum Dum’s face in the passenger window. He stepped out into the road and waved both hands frantically. 

Which got him a ride, some reassurances, quite a lot of good-natured ribbing from the guys, and one very stern Captain America is Not Amused glower from Steve before they even turned their attention to the bedraggled young man with him. Because Celeste looked absolutely nothing like a woman at the moment, all gawky elbows and filthy hair and torn shirt. 

“Pick up another stray, Barnes?” Jim Morita asked, like Celeste was some sort of wounded puppy that Bucky had found on the side of the road. The way Celeste folded in on herself, trying to make herself smaller so that no one would see her, tore Bucky’s heart right out of his chest. 

Bucky inhaled, exhaled slowly and turned his thousand-yard piercing sniper gaze on each of the Commandos in turn, reminding them in a way he seldom did that he was the most deadly of them all, with the highest kill-count, saying without words that he would end them _right now_ if they didn’t put on their game faces. 

“This is Mademoiselle Celeste Laroux, our contact. She’s the reason we knew about the scientists, and she has more intel for us,” Bucky said, giving a little introductory bow that probably looked ridiculous in his tattered disguise. He named out the Commandos, saving Steve for last and introducing him as Captain Rogers, rather than Captain America, because Steve still got a little flat-mouthed and pissy about Bucky calling him by a stage name. 

Dum Dum merely blinked, then swept that stupid hat off his head in a ridiculous gesture, and bowed. “Ma’am,” he said. “Thank y’ for keepin’ our boy alive. We’d miss his stupid ass if he got it shot off.” 

“It was entirely my pleasure, Mr. Dugan,” Celeste murmured and the sound of her honey and whiskey voice got everyone’s attention. Dernier muttered something that sounded like “I _bet_ it was,” but shut his mouth and mimed tossing a key when Bucky glared at him. 

Bucky rode back to Command with Celeste pressed like a second skin against his side, letting the conversation wash over him without really listening, the Commandos and the three scientists-slash-spies-and-turncoats they’d managed to liberate. Once they got back to Command, Peggy Carter yelled at the men for almost ten minutes before tucking Celeste into her embrace and rushing her away for a shower and a change of clothing. 

When Celeste came back out, she was wearing one of Peggy’s pintucked blouses that had been hastily altered and a knee-length skirt, looking every inch the woman that she was; Peggy had even managed to do something that swept the remains of Celeste’s hair up and back, making it look feminine and pretty rather than boyish and ragged. Peggy Carter made miracles; Bucky would swear that to St. Peter at the gates. 

Celeste’s upgraded appearance was causing a lot of wink-and-nudge bullshit from the guys, and Bucky had to clamp down on a sudden urge to hide her, not because he was afraid the guys would find out, but because he was actually concerned that someone might try to steal her. Hell, gals never even looked at him anymore, when Steve was in the room, and Bucky didn’t know if he could swallow that much gall, if Celeste turned her glorious eyes in the direction of Captain America. 

Which, weirdly enough, she didn’t do, when Steve came over after reporting to Command to chat. It wasn’t like one of Bucky’s other gals, who had not-looked at Steve so hard that it was painful, which had been downright offensive; Celeste was cordial enough, even friendly -- but her eyes had swept over Steve once and found him wanting in a way she had never done with Bucky. Or maybe, she just found Bucky in a completely different _wanting_ way, and that was okayfine with him. 

“Colonel Phillips gave us the next two days on leave, since it’ll be that long before transport can be arranged,” Steve said, still in his Captain Rogers mode. Bucky had straightened reflexively in answer to the square set of Steve’s shoulders, the only part of him touching Celeste the allowed hand on her elbow. He really should be more proper, now they were back among the ranks. The Commandos got a lot of slack, being Phillip’s both most adored and least favorite unit in the entire damn army, but Phillips would probably go right through the roof if he saw Bucky hanging all over a woman while he was in uniform. 

“Look, take your girl over to Com3, huh? The brass wants to have a nice long chat with both of you, so you might want to swing by mess before you head over. I’ll rescue you at Taps if they haven’t turned you loose by then. And Peggy’s got something in the works for a room for you, ma’am.” 

“Yes, Captain,” Bucky said, and Steve made that annoyed, flat mouth again, but this time he rolled his eyes and punched Bucky in the arm, so Bucky knew he was forgiven. 

“Come with me, my dear,” Bucky said, turning Celeste carefully in the direction of the mess tent, “and I’ll introduce you to the joys that is food in the American Army.” 

* * *

 

Steve did as he promised, and rescued them promptly at sunset and was painfully casual as he pointed out which window was going to be Celeste’s. Not something Steve was comfortable with; he was, as Bucky had said to his face, just about the most uptight son of a bitch in this man’s army. Which was not to say that Steve didn’t get any -- he most certainly did -- but that the girls had to practically crawl on him and strip his clothes off before he even noticed that they were making eyes. 

At least Bucky was pretty sure that Steve had gotten his bell rung a few times, and that right fine. And then Bucky threw his hands up and let Steve deal with his own damn repression, because what the hell else was he supposed to do? 

But when Steve offered him a leg up as they were taking an “evening constitutional” through the darkened camp an hour or two later, Bucky grinned. He didn’t need the assist, but he was grateful for the reminder that they were still best friends, still backing each other’s play. He stepped into the cup of Steve’s hands and took the boost to the window, pushing it up and slipping inside. 

Celeste practically knocked him back out the window in her enthusiasm to kiss him, and Steve laughed, looking up at them from the ground. “Take care of him, ma’am,” he said, tipping Bucky a quick salute and then turning away as if it were nothing at all. Watching Steve walking away alone in the middle of the camp did unpleasant things to Bucky’s heart; he hoped like hell that Peggy’s window was about to be similarly invaded. But then Bucky had an armful of warm and willing woman. Steve would hold until tomorrow. Or even the next day, if Bucky got really creative. 

Celeste closed the window and drew the blackout curtains, leaving them nestled in the darkness. 

“My beautiful boy,” she murmured, stealing tiny kisses along his bottom lip until he was gasping for air and clinging to her like a lifeline, his knees absolutely going to jelly and not even ashamed to admit it. The woman made him weak, and there was comfort and relief in it. She smelled of soap and Peggy’s not-quite-contraband powder -- no question but that Carter had guessed what was going on -- and underneath was the sweet, starlight smell of her skin. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, let her head loll back into his waiting hand and licked her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat. She groaned, that breathy voice setting fire to his guts. 

“I love you,” Bucky said. It shouldn’t have been an appropriate time to say it, or maybe it was the best time; he couldn’t tell. But nothing felt so right as those words in his mouth, and the way her eyes shone, catlike in the darkness, made it all worthwhile. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want to see you,” she said. “This uniform, you look so distant and untouchable. I miss your cap and that ridiculous jacket.” 

“That much I can do,” Bucky said, tossing his cover onto a nearby chair and working his way out of the jacket and blouse. Celeste lit a single candle and placed a hurricane glass over it. Lights were kept to a minimum at night; even blackout curtains sometimes showed cracks and slivers that made targets for sharp-eyed Nazi spies and bombers. Bucky didn’t need even that little bit of light anymore, but the softness of the candle touched her skin with a faint pearlescent glow and he couldn’t look away even if he’d wanted to. 

Once he’d folded his jacket and laid it aside, she started helping him. He was stripped to the waist before he knew it, and she pushed him gently to sit on the edge of her bed. There had never been anything in his life up until that moment that made him feel more like a man than Celeste kneeling at his feet to unlace his boots. 

She took care of him, touching and stroking. She unbuckled his belt and he stood, one hand on her shoulder for balance while he stepped out of his trousers. She pushed him back onto the bed, pressed down on him. She kissed his mouth until he opened up for her; he lay still and quiet, letting her draw each trembling, shuddering response out of his body. He was hard and aching and she was soft and sweet against him. 

Celeste pressed one long, slender finger against his mouth. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, and disappeared behind the changing screen. In the shadow of the candle, he watched her silhouette as she undressed, his mouth dry as he watched her undo buttons and slip her arms out of sleeves. 

By the time her skirt slid free of her hips and pooled around her feet, Bucky was biting down on his own forearm to keep from groaning out loud. She bent at the waist, did something he couldn’t quite parse until suddenly he did. She was tucking her penis back, hiding it, and Bucky had to close his eyes for a moment, because he nearly could not bear it. 

He loved her, just as she was, and the flesh between her legs was as much a part of her as her glorious eyes and smoky voice. At the same time, he’d seen the way she’d flinched away from Dum Dum’s observations when everyone had seen her as a man. Well, he’d not want, ever, to be on the receiving end of one of those pained expressions. Whatever she had to do, to be comfortable -- to be _happy_ \-- Bucky would embrace. 

When she came to him, wearing a long night robe, loosely bound at the waist, and taking gentle, hip-rolling steps, he smiled, bright as he could, and made room for her in the bed. She took her time, moving carefully to lay under him, and he couldn’t breathe, she was so magnificent. 

She touched him and he was so wound, so ready that he jumped just from the brush of her fingertips through the cloth of his shorts. 

Bucky put his hand on her shoulder, then slid it down her belly until he reached the tie of her robe. “Can I?” He wanted, wanted so bad and he didn’t know if he could wait any longer, but he needed to know that she wanted, too. 

“Anything,” she said, “and everything.” 

He shucked his shorts and opened her robe, taking her mouth with his and letting everything that he felt be expressed in the curve of his lip and the sweep of his tongue. 

And there was no more need for words, just soft touches and kisses. He licked everywhere that she would let him. When he touched one pink, flat nipple, she cried out softly and then she bit him on his shoulder to stifle the sound. Bucky surged forward, aching and desperate and she tipped her head to look up at him, her teeth still bared like a feral animal. Everything he was and everything he ever would be was burned away in white hot lust. 

She knew it, saw everything with those brilliant, sultry eyes, and she did it again, biting him until his skin was raw in places, purpling, and he was gasping for air, shaking with the need to hold himself back. 

Celeste pulled him over her body, angled his swollen, aching cock between her legs, and keeping her thighs pressed tight, drew him into the shallow depression there. He was slick with precome and thrusting into the hollow of her thighs was liking coming home. She inhaled, her eyes stuttered open and she watched him, a half smile on her face, as he worked with her, taking everything she had to offer and knowing it was more than he deserved. 

“So lovely,” Bucky said, speaking English to her for the first time since he’d met her, too close to the ragged edge to summon any but his mother tongue to mind. 

She bit him again, gasping against his shoulder as her sharp little teeth took a taste. When he kissed her again, he could taste his blood against her lip and that rocked him all the way to his core, sweeping him into the buffet of currents that was his orgasm, each muscle straining to fulfillment and then there, _there_ , and she was in his arms and crying his name.


	6. A Turn of Grey Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Write to me, my beautiful boy,” she demanded. “And I will count the days as if they were years until I see you again.”
> 
> “Every day,” Bucky promised. He wouldn’t actually be able to write so often on such a mission and she well knew it, but she would pretend to believe and he would keep the promise as well as he could. Whether he was able to write or not, he certainly would think of her every day, every hour. “I’ll come find you, after.”

_London, four months later_  

“James,” Celeste said, waving her arm to him. Peggy had done something with a pair of scissors and a few ribbons that turned Celeste’s ragged mop into a sleek, feminine bob. Not that it mattered to Bucky -- she would be beautiful to him no matter what -- but the cut made Celeste happier, and whatever made Celeste happier, made Bucky happier as well. 

“My darling,” Bucky said, clasping her hands and kissing her fingers lightly. The steamer behind them was crowded with sailors, soldiers and civilians alike preparing for the dangerous crossing. The Allies held little of the coast and German U-boats patrolled the English Channel like sharks, waiting to bring down anything that floated, military and civilian alike. But Celeste could no longer return to the Continent, and Bucky couldn’t stay with her in London. 

The Commandos were headed out that afternoon for a special mission halfway across the expanse of northern Europe to chase down information provided to them from “Gaelan’s” letters about the Schnellzug EB912 train. 

“Write to me, my beautiful boy,” she demanded. “And I will count the days as if they were years until I see you again.” 

“Every day,” Bucky promised. He wouldn’t actually be able to write so often on such a mission and she well knew it, but she would pretend to believe and he would keep the promise as well as he could. Whether he was able to write or not, he certainly would think of her every day, every hour. “I’ll come find you, after.” 

“I know you will.” 

He took her elbow and led her aboard the steamer, stealing one last kiss to warm him against the winter before he reluctantly retreated down the gangplank. He stayed on the dock, waving until she was out of sight. Tucked inside his jacket, in the pocket over his heart, was a single twist of black braid tied with a yellow ribbon. He pressed his hand over the pocket, feeling the soft shape of her hair. 

He took a breath, sending his prayer for safety to the now barely-visible puff of steam, and turned to go and find Steve and the others, to pack and plan their mission. 

* * *

 

 _Ms. Celeste Laroux_  

_Your friend, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, was engaged in crucial intelligence gathering and the capture of enemy war criminals aboard a train when he fell from the train and over the side of a tressel, as a result of the train being damaged by enemy fire. His body was never recovered._

 _Pursuant to Public Law 490, as amended, his death is presumed to have occurred February 21, 1946, which is the day following the day of expiration of an absence of 12 months._  
  
_It is deeply regretted that the hope which you have held during these intervening months for the safe return of your intended must now be concluded. I extend to you my sincere sympathy in your sorrow._

_Margaret Carter, SSR_

_P.S. I am currently living in New York, but intend to return to London in the spring for a visit. I hope you will allow me to call and offer my condolences in person then. -Peggy_

  __  
  


“Oh, James. My beautiful boy.” She had known, she had known ever since the news of Captain America’s courageous fall that her darling was not coming home, would not come to find her in the tiny, neat room in the boarding house in London where she had waited. But the letter, dutifully written on plain, black-bordered paper, was still a blow, softened only by the personal note at the end. Celeste fell to her knees, sobbing.


End file.
